A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Thirty-Five
May, 1915
"...and to complete this dedication, I
present a highly talented painter and sculptor, whose work we are honored to
display in the student gallery. From the Class of 1916, Miss Rose Dawson."
Rose stepped forward to a smattering of
polite applause and one loud whistle that could only have come from Vera. She
had to smile as she hefted an oversize pair of scissors and cut the ribbon that
fronted the steps of Taylor Hall, Vassar's new art gallery. A fresh round of
applause sounded and the crowd began to swarm into the building.
Rose returned the scissors to the Master of
Ceremonies and waited on the steps for Vera. They entered the hall together and
headed for the student gallery, stopping every few feet for Rose to accept
congratulations from another student or faculty member.
"Where's Angelica?" Vera wanted to
know.
"Do you care?"
Vera chuckled in appreciation. "Good
point."
Rose knew where her roommate was--asleep. The
opening of the new art gallery was a milestone in Rose's life, but it was a
morning event and not exciting enough to rouse Angelica from her beauty rest.
Besides, she and Rose were still barely on speaking terms.
Several of Rose's pieces were on display,
including the still life of a pear and a set of exquisite pottery bowls. Vera
was drawn to one portrait in particular, that of a woman standing at a balcony
with her back turned, watching the sun set over a distant ocean. A dark,
menacing figure hovered in the shadows at the edge of the frame.
"What do you call this one?" she
asked.
A cloud passed over Rose's face. "A
Cry For Help."
Vera frowned.
"It's her best yet," spoke a woman
who'd wandered over without them noticing. She draped an arm about Rose's
shoulders. "This is one of our prize pupils. She'll have her own gallery
someday."
Rose's face flushed. "Professor Curry,
you say that about all your students."
"And in your case, I mean it."
Rose made the introductions, and it was
Vera's turn to blush when the professor remarked that she admired her efforts
to start a suffrage club on campus.
"So, Rose," Professor Curry
commented, surveying her student's collection, "I see you didn't take my
suggestion to include the portrait of your young man."
Vera's mouth flew open. "The first time
I knew Rose was a genuine talent," the teacher continued, a mischievous
gleam in her eye, "was in my basic drawing class. She did a sketch of a
gentleman that captured his likeness so perfectly, right there in class,
without having him in front of her. I never could figure out how she
accomplished this, unless he was a figment of her imagination--a visitor in her
dreams, perhaps?"
She spotted another of her students and,
giving Rose's shoulders a squeeze, moved on. Vera smiled wickedly. "You
never showed me any drawings of Sebastian."
"Some things are better left
hidden," Rose remarked. Like the fact that the drawing wasn't of
Sebastian.
After an hour, Rose and Vera left the
gallery. Rose wanted to spend a little more time with the exhibits, but was
obligated to attend the rest of the festivities in honor of Founder's Day.
There were more speeches and an outdoor buffet, followed by poetry readings and
a dance. All afternoon Rose avoided Angelica and the photographers. There would
be no more pictures of her in any publications, not even the Vassar Miscellany.
She prayed no one snapped a photo of her during the ribbon cutting ceremony.
No one from her past had contacted her. Yet.
*****
"It is her, I tell you!"
Caledon Hockley slammed the well-worn copy of
the New York Times on the breakfast table before his father, daring him
to challenge his words. Nathan Hockley eyed him coolly before returning to his
plate of fresh fruit and scones.
"You insisted on dragging Gracie away
from home on the pretext of wanting to go over some business matters for this?"
"Will you just look at the
picture!"
Nathan sighed and finally humored his son, giving
the photograph on the front page a cursory glance before acknowledging that
yes, there was a slight resemblance.
"A slight resemblance, Father? Are you
going blind in your old age?"
Nathan fixed his steely dark eyes upon Cal's
face, and the glare was enough to freeze a rattlesnake in its tracks. Cal was
silent. To this day, his father was the only man he feared.
"You will stop your ranting this
instant," Nathan commanded. "Do you want to disturb Gracie?"
"Of course not, Father." Grace,
Cal's wife of nearly a year, still slept in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs,
and he doubted she could hear them. But she was a fragile girl, pregnant with
their first child, and as his father kept reminding him, liable to miscarry at
the slightest upset. So Cal lowered his voice.
"There was a time when I spent nearly
every waking moment with Rose DeWitt Bukater," he persisted. "If that
isn't her, I don't know who else it could be."
"You don't know who it is." Nathan
dabbed a spoonful of strawberry preserves onto a scone. "The girl in the
picture is too plainly dressed. And what on earth would Rose be doing at such a
fracas?" He paused to take a bite, then continued sardonically, "Not
to mention the fact that Rose died to be with another man."
Cal flinched and turned his head.
Nathan continued to mock him. "Don't
worry, son, your manhood's safe with me. I don't think anyone took Ruth's story
about her daughter and some third class vagabond seriously."
"Except the people who were there,"
Cal muttered.
Nathan went on as if he hadn't heard.
"All that matters is that our family and associates believe that without
your knowledge, Rose got back on the ship to search for you." He shook his
head. "Who knows what was going on in poor Ruth's mind?"
"Speaking of Ruth, why haven't you gone
to her with that photograph? She could put your mind at ease at once."
"I told you, Father, Ruth left
Philadelphia as soon as you found a buyer for her home. I haven't heard from
her since."
"Well, what does that tell you?"
Nathan finished the last bite of pastry and stood, appearing every bit as tall
as his son, although Cal had three inches on him.
"I authorized a private detective for
you three years ago. Her name wasn't on any survivor lists. Why won't you let
this go? You have a fine new bride, a child on the way. It's time for you to
quit chasing ghosts, son."
It was the closest to sympathy that Nathan
Hockley would ever come, yet Cal wasn't satisfied. He stared at the newspaper
spread on the table as his father walked slowly from the dining room. In the
doorway, the old man hesitated.
"Why don't you go to Philadelphia and
visit her grave if she's all that important to you? You haven't paid your
respects since the funeral."
"Oh, I'm going to visit her, all
right," Cal, staring at the picture on page A1, said to himself through
gritted teeth. "As soon as your investigator finds her, I'm going to have
a nice friendly visit with Rose."